John smiled thinly, marveling that Richard should dare to sneer at another man’s sexual habits, given Richard’s own vulnerabilities in that particular area. There were, he thought scornfully, worse vices than liking women overly well. But all at once he found himself thinking of that ugly scene at Chinon, remembering the fear he’d felt when facing down Martin Algais. That would, he knew, never have happened to Richard. Men did not defy his brother. The foolhardy few who’d dared were dead. He had a sudden wild impulse to tell Richard that their father was dying, wondering what Richard would say or feel. Nothing, he suspected. Everything was always so damnably easy for Richard.
John was the youngest of the eight children born to Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine. His sisters had been bartered as child brides to foreign Princes, were little more to him now than time-dimmed memories. His brothers had been, by turns, indifferent and antagonistic to this last-born of the Angevin eaglets—with one exception. William Longsword was, like Geoffrey, a bastard half-brother. But Will had somehow missed his share of the Angevin temperament; his was a placid, unimaginative nature, sentimental and straightforward, an unlikely drab grey dove in that family of flamboyant hawks. Will had been amiably interested in the little brother born within days of his own tenth birthday, had taken it upon himself to wipe John’s nose, to pick him up when he fell, to be for John a good-natured guide through the pitfalls and passages of childhood. He’d become quite fond of the dark little boy so eager to please, had watched rather sadly as John was utterly ignored by his mother, overly indulged by his father, as the twig was bent, twisted awry, seeing the distortion but not knowing how to set it right. Yet the bonds of boyhood had proven to be enduring ones, and Will and John did to this day enjoy a relationship remarkably free of strain in a family notorious for its internecine rivalries.
It was nightfall by the time Will reached Rouen and was escorted up to John’s chamber. John greeted him with a grin, with genuine pleasure, at once sent to the castle buttery for wine, even dismissed an uncommonly pretty bedmate so they could talk alone.
Richard had that day departed Rouen for Gisors, where Philip awaited him, and John and Will joked now about the exorbitant price Philip was likely to claim for his support in securing Richard the crown. Will could not help thinking that John, too, had profited handsomely. Richard had wasted no time in investing his younger brother as Count of Mortain; John’s marriage to Avisa of Gloucester was to take place on August 29, and Will had heard that Richard meant to bestow upon John the incomes from the English counties of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, Somerset, Nottingham, and Derby. Will thought Richard had been surprisingly generous, and said as much to John.
“That,” John said cheerfully, “is because I am—by the vagaries of fate—Brother Richard’s heir. And Richard’s more peculiar proclivities do make it at least likely that I’ll be the only heir.”
Will sighed, feeling much like a parent with a loved but wayward child. “Bear in mind, lad, what Scriptures say about coveting,” he said mildly, and John laughed.
“What we need to do now, Will, is to get Richard to find an heiress for you ere he goes galloping off to find martyrdom in Messina—or was it sainthood in Syria? Can you believe the man, Will? He’s not even set the date for his coronation yet, and all he can talk about is how he cannot wait to risk his life in some infidel hellhole. I truly think he must be mad,” John said, with such sincerity that Will had to laugh.
“If you can coax Richard into giving me a landed wife, I’ll be much in your debt. But now we do need to talk. I rode in from Fontevrault with Geoffrey. He’s right bitter, John, like to say that which would be better left unsaid. I thought I’d best get to you first, tell—”
“My lord? My lord, your brother—”
Geoffrey did not wait to be announced, but shoved the servant aside, and strode into the chamber. “I do want to talk to you, John.”
“How lucky for me,” John said coolly, signaled to the servant to pour them wine. “What shall we drink to, Geoffrey? Your good fortune? Did he tell you, Will, that Richard has ordered the canons of York to elect Brother Geoffrey as their Archbishop? Of course, there is still a minor matter of taking vows, but that is a small price to pay to become a Prince of the Church, is it not?”
“I rather thought I had you to thank for that,” Geoffrey said. “But that is not why I’m here, and you damned well know it, John. I’m going to tell you how our father died, and you’re going to listen.”
“Am I indeed?” John’s eyes had gone very green. “I think not. If you want to lay blame about, lay it where it belongs—on Richard’s head. Not mine. If you have anything to say, say it then to Richard!”
“I did…at Fontevrault. He at least was man enough to hear me out. Are you?”
John had half risen from his chair. With that, he sank back. “Say what you have to say and then get out.”
“Gladly.” Geoffrey reached over and, without asking, helped himself to one of the wine cups. “I would to God I knew what Papa saw in you. He kept faith to the end, you know. Even your cowardly flight from Chinon did not open his eyes. Almost to the last, he kept expecting you to come back, even worried about you, if you can credit that!”
“Geoffrey,” Will said uneasily, “this does serve for naught…”
“Keep out of this, Will. On July third, Tours fell, and Philip and Richard summoned Papa to Colombières. He was sick unto death, made it only as far as the Knights Templars at Ballan. But when he sent word to Philip, Richard insisted he was malingering, playing for time. By then he could barely stay in the saddle, but he refused a horse litter, somehow got himself to Colombières. Even Philip was moved to pity at sight of him, even Philip, offered to spread a cloak on the ground for him. But he would not agree. He was too proud, you see…” Geoffrey’s voice had thickened; he drank, keeping his eyes all the while upon John.
“They told him he was there not to discuss terms, but to yield to their demands. They dared to speak so to him, and he could do nothing about it. Then they told him what they wanted. He must do homage to Philip for his lands in Normandy and Anjou, accept Philip as his overlord. He must pay Philip twenty thousand marks, must have all his barons swear fealty to Richard, must promise not to take vengeance upon those who’d betrayed him. All this they demanded—and more. By then the noonday sky was black as ink, sweat ran off him like rain, and how he ever kept to his saddle, the Lord Christ Jesus alone does know. But they were not through yet. He must publicly give Richard the kiss of peace, they said. Even that he did, even that…and then hissed in Richard’s ear, ‘God grant I do not die ere I have revenged myself upon you.’ Of course, you may already know that, John. I understand Richard told one and all at the French court, as if it were some droll joke!
“We brought him back to Chinon by horse litter, and I watched through the night as his fever burned ever higher. The next day Roger Malchet rode in from Tours with a list of rebels, those men who’d gone over to Philip and Richard. Need I tell you, John, that your name did head the list?”
Geoffrey paused, but John said nothing. “He did not believe it at first, cursed Roger, me, all within hearing, accused us of lying, of trying to poison his mind against you, his ‘dearest born.’ And when he could deny it no longer, he turned his face to the wall, said no more. Within hours he was dead. His last words to me were, ‘You are my true son. The others—they are the bastards.’
“There were only a few of us with him at the last; most had already taken themselves off to Richard’s encampment. Whilst I was in the chapel, his servants stripped his body, stole rings, clothing, whatever they could find. We’d have had to bury him mother-naked had not one of his squires let us wrap the body in his cloak, and as it was, we had not even money for alms.
“So died the greatest Prince in Christendom, our lord father. You think on that, John, think on how he died, and then tell me again that you bear no blame. Well? Have you nothing to say? Passing strange, neither did Richard.”
> Geoffrey drained the wine cup very deliberately, turned and walked to the door. “Richard forced him from a sickbed, broke his power, his pride. But you, John, you broke his heart. I truly wonder which be the greater sin.”
Will shifted uncomfortably as the door slammed, slanted a surreptitious look toward John. It may have been the dim lighting, but John seemed to have lost color. He’d turned his head away; his face was in profile, utterly still, masklike. Will fidgeted, opened his mouth, and then sat back, defeated. What, after all, was there to say?
4
Southampton, England
February 1192
Will was frowning as he followed a servant up the stairwell to his brother’s chamber, dreading the scene that was sure to follow. He was almost tempted to stand aside, to let John rush headlong to his own destruction. Almost.
His mouth softened somewhat at sight of the man and boy together on the settle. John was surprisingly good with children, could not be faulted when it came to the care of his own, and whenever Will found himself despairing of his brother’s flexible measurements of morality, he took comfort in remembering how conscientious John was in acknowledging and providing for the children born of his bedsport. That was no small virtue to Will, himself born of Henry’s passing lust for a green-eyed milkmaid with well-turned ankles.
He was as yet unnoticed. John was holding out his hands, fists clenched. “Now tell me, Richard. Which hand holds the fig?” The little boy pointed. “Sorry! This hand, then? No, wrong again. Where did it go? Ah, there it is…” Reaching out, he seemed to find the fig behind the child’s ear, to Will’s amusement and Richard’s utter delight.
“One more time, Papa!” he pleaded, as John turned at sound of Will’s chuckle. For an unguarded moment, his face showed sudden unease, and then he smiled, beckoned Will into the room.
“‘One more time,’” he mimicked. “‘One more time.’ Mayhap we ought to call you that rather than Richard!” He then plucked the fig from Richard’s sleeve, while Will watched and wondered, not for the first time, what perverse impulse had prompted John to name his son after the brother he so hated. As with much of what John did, the answer eluded him. Will had long ago recognized that his imagination was rooted in barren soil; no matter how he strained, it brought forth only a meagre crop, never the sort of creative conjecture he’d have needed to track the twisting byways of his brother’s brain.
Richard was munching on the elusive fig; now he offered the uneaten half first to John and then to Will, with a gravely deliberate courtesy that was both unexpected and poignant in one so very young. He was, Will knew, just shy of his third birthday, a date well etched in Will’s memory because of the scandal attached to that birth. For Richard’s mother was quite unlike John’s other bedmates, was no impoverished knight’s daughter, no Saxon maidservant. Alina was the daughter of Hamelin de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, half-brother to King Henry, albeit baseborn.
That was the first and only time Will could remember Henry showing concern for one of his sons’ sexual escapades. He had even taken it upon himself to rebuke John for seducing a first cousin, a girl of high birth. Unfortunately, his own moral armor was particularly vulnerable to that very charge, and he succeeded only in arousing in John an indignation that was, Will conceded, not altogether unjustified. John’s involvement with Alina was of minor moment, after all, when compared to Henry’s seduction of the Princess Alais.
Will did not like to think of Alais; he was by nature protective of women, and he could not deny that Alais had been ill used, first by his father and now by Richard. Sister to Philip, the French King, she had been betrothed to Richard in childhood and, at age seven, was sent to England to be reared at Henry’s court in accordance with custom. It was hardly customary, though, Will thought grimly, for a man to bed his son’s betrothed, and yet his father had done just that, had taken Alais to his bed when she was sixteen. It was scarcely surprising, Will acknowledged, that upon Henry’s death Richard refused to honor the plight troth, telling Philip bluntly that he’d not wed his father’s whore. Will saw no justification, however, for keeping Alais in close confinement, and yet for almost three years now, Richard had held Alais prisoner in Rouen.
But Will had troubles enough of his own without taking on those of a captive French Princess, and he shifted impatiently in his seat, waiting for John to send Richard off to bed so they could talk.
“You did that trick with the fig very adroitly. Where did you learn it?”
“From a juggler at the French court. He told me that I have a rare gift for sleight of hand!”
John looked at him, eyes alight with laughter, and Will felt a dull ache, a wrenching realization that he was too late, years too late. Yet he had to try, and as soon as Richard’s nurse came to collect the boy, he said very quietly, “John…do not do this.”
“Do what, Will?”
“I know why you are here in Southampton. You mean to sail for France, to meet in Paris with the French King.”
“Is that why you came racing from London? Poor Will…you did bruise your bones for naught, in truth.” John’s smile was wry, faintly reproachful. “I am about to sail as soon as the weather does clear, but for Normandy, not France.”
He was more than plausible, he was thoroughly convincing, and he was lying. Will leaned over, grasped his wrist. “John, do not play me for a fool. You owe me better than that. If I cared enough to make an eighty-mile ride in weather as foul as this, then you can damned well hear me out!”
“All right, Will,” John said slowly, taken aback by this uncharacteristic outburst. “What makes you think I mean to ally myself with Philip?”
“Because Philip and Richard buried what was left of their friendship in the Holy Land. Because Richard is still in Acre and Philip is now back in Paris, nursing a mortal grudge. Because you’d barter your very soul for a chance to do Richard ill. Because Philip has of a sudden invited you to Paris. Need I go on?”
“If disliking Richard be grounds for accusing a man of conspiracy, I daresay you could implicate half of Christendom in this so-called plot,” John scoffed. “Richard endears himself easiest to those who’ve yet to meet him.” Rising, he moved to the table, gained time to think by pouring himself a cupful of cider. He poured, too, for Will, stood for a moment looking down at the older man. So, he thought suddenly, must their father have looked at thirty-four, for Will had Henry’s reddish gold hair, his ruddy coloring, even the same scattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose.
“Just suppose, Will, that you are right, that I do mean to throw my lot in with Philip. If you had proof of that, what would you do? Go to my lady mother? Betray me to Richard?”
Will’s shoulders slumped. “No,” he mumbled, full of self-loathing. “You know I could not.”
“Do not begrudge me your loyalty, Will. I deserve it more than Richard, for he loves you not and I love you well.” John thrust a dripping cider cup into Will’s hand, took the closest seat. “I even love you enough to trust you with the truth. Did you by chance see a monk in the great hall when you arrived? That is Brother Bernard de Coudray, Philip’s man. You were right, of course; Philip has indeed made me an offer. ‘All the lands of England and Normandy on the French side of the Channel.’ I need only swear homage to him as overlord, and once we get his sister Alais out of Richard’s power, take her to wife.”
Will choked on his cider, began to sputter. “Christ Jesus, John! You cannot mean that? You’d truly agree to wed Alais?”
“Why not?”
Will drew a strangled breath. “For one thing,” he snapped, “you already do have a wife! Or did that somehow slip your mind?”
John drank to conceal a grin; his brother’s ponderous attempts at sarcasm never failed to amuse him, but he did not want to offend Will by laughing outright. “Have you forgotten that Avisa is my second cousin? Or that we neglected to get a papal dispensation for our marriage? Nor need your heart bleed for Avisa, the abandoned wife. We may not agree on much,
but we do share a deep and very mutual dislike.”
“But Alais! She bedded with Papa for years and all know it, even bore him a stillborn son!”
John shrugged. “Being Papa’s concubine does not make her any less Philip’s sister, and if she’s the price for Philip’s support…at least we’d be keeping her in the family!”
“That’s not amusing, John! How can you jest about betrayal and treason, a marriage all but incestuous?”
John set his cup down with a thud. “What would you have me do? It’s been sixteen months since Richard named our dead brother Geoffrey’s son as his heir, nine months since my lady mother coerced him into taking a Spanish wife. Nine months, Will. For all I know, she could already be with child. What if she is, if she manages a miracle, keeps Richard in her bed long enough to give him a son?”
“Ah, John…you’d still be Count of Mortain, Earl of Gloucester, with an income of four thousand pounds a year. Can you not content yourself with that?”
John stared at him, and then gave a short, incredulous laugh. “God help you, Will, I truly think you’re serious!”
Until that moment, Will had been slow to see the magnitude of his mistake. Had he really thought he could talk sense into John? All he’d done was to take on a share of the guilt, to compromise himself in the complicity of silence.
“Do not leave on the morrow, Will. Stay till week’s end. How is your manor at Kirton? This was a bad year for crops; if you’re in need of money…”
Will had no false pride, saw no reason to refuse aid from John, not when he had only the manors of Kirton and Appleby, and John had the revenues from six shires. He made a point, though, of not abusing John’s generosity, never asking unless there was a specific need. “Thank you, lad, no. I do not—”
“My lord!” A flustered servant stumbled into the chamber. “My lord, the Queen has just ridden into the bailey!”
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